July. The houses shrug into themselves
Getting ready. Light and haze in the morning.
The roads are pure and simple.
I find a box of screws, something
From my father, now a factor of language.
He could not mend things, my father.
Along with coffee and the newspaper
I find Mahler on the radio.
Mahler who said: “I beat and pound for the dead.”
Planet of the Blind 
I come here almost daily to read — your poetry, your musings, your politics — they all interest and often overwhelm me. I think, of late, that you’re a smokeless fire, embers hot — just beautiful.
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